


Teach them well and let them lead the way

by cherry3point14



Series: Sammy's Stripper AU [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Basically it's a tale as old as time, F/M, I'd tag this porn without plot but I don't know if this mess I wrote counts as porn, I'm sorry to everyone who liked the first one, Man and (now ex)stripper have sex, Man is very attractive, NSFW, Smut, Stripper rips off man, Stripper sees man in bar several months later, The sequel is never as good, boom chicka wah wah, so i mean, standard motel hook up, you get the jist, you know what they say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15527844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: After a fall down a flight of stairs, that was, unfortunately, nobody’s fault but your own, you’re out of the stripping game. But that doesn’t mean you don’t remember the guy that you ripped off on Christmas Eve when you see him again.





	Teach them well and let them lead the way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awkwardsloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsloth/gifts).



> Warnings: badly written smut.

Normally a night out would mean you’re in some club by now, dark, music pounding, dancing against anyone or anything. Even on a warm August evening, a room full of sweaty strangers is a preferable activity for you. With your job being what is, or was until a few months ago, dancing wasn’t something that only happened with alcohol flowing through your veins. It was as natural to you as standing upright to other people. You missed being paid to dance sure, but there was also a freedom about dancing for yourself. Not for anyone else’s pleasure but your own while your body felt the music rather than heard it.

But your idea of going dancing have been vetoed so instead here you were sitting in a booth in some bar that Claire told you had good food, cheap beer and most importantly no dress code. Claire hated getting all dressed up on her nights off, and since she still worked at the club you could understand.

Besides your ankle was a little stiff in heels, dancing might have to wait for a few more weeks.

She’d promised you it’s her treat tonight since it’s the first time you’ve been out after the fall and you don’t argue. There should be some benefits to falling down a flight of stairs but all you had received so far was a broken ankle, a broken leg, and a severe concussion. It was time to reap those sweet, sympathy rewards.

And you were more than aware of how much she makes a night compared to how much you make in that magical place where good people go to die.

Telesales.

After you’d gotten over your excitement for your Madonna headset it had all been downhill. People yelled at you for most of the day, the ones that did listen you felt guilty about as you took their money, plus Gary in the cubicle next to you was a total jerkoff.

Literally. You’re pretty sure you heard him jerk off in there last week.

It had been the fastest income stream you could find while you still had the cast on though. Sitting down all day on the phone is perfect for the immobile. But now that you were free from your Plaster of Paris prison you knew you needed to find something different. Be something different.

But for this evening you’re going to enjoy some freedom. You're going to enjoy your friends company like you don’t miss the club and you’re going to drink like it’s not your first time in weeks. You order a burger, one stacked with enough meat, onion rings and cheese that looks like it’s a week’s worth of food. Claire complains that at least one of you still has to watch your figure while she orders a sorry sounding grilled chicken burger.

“You try carrying your entire body weight around on crutches. Trust me, it’s a workout. I haven’t gained a pound.”

She whips her head around with big, dumb eyes, “oh I’m sorry, where are your crutches again?”

You knock her shoulder to stop the teasing, which doesn’t work obviously, “my cast has only been off for two weeks. Doctors say you still burn those calories for up to a month… probably.”

The playful banter continues until the food actually arrives. Your fingers wrap around the beast on your plate, fingers squeezing it together enough for you to take a large bite that leaves an Instagram worthy cross-section.

“Soooo goof,” you exaggerate as best you can with a mouthful of meat.

“You’re the grossest person I know, and I cannot believe we’re friends. In fact, I cannot believe you got paid to be pretty.” Claire conservatively cuts her chicken in half and takes a much more reserved bite of her own food.

“What’s that? You love me more than you love your boyfriend? Oh, you shouldn’t say things like that, Tom will be sad.” You barely smile at your own joke as you go in for another bite.

That is until you almost choke on it.

Across the bar you see him. Or them. Well, you see _it_ first.

Your eyes catch the burger that’s the same as yours. Then you follow the hands currently trying to squash the thing into an edible size and you see broad shoulders and short hair that you last saw squashed under a Santa’s hat

Next to him, eating the same terrible excuse for a meal as Claire is _him_.

The nice guy. Sam. Of course, you remember Sam. He’s the guy that with the puppy dog eyes that stopped you mid-routine. Even if you did only play along with his savior complex to rip him off. His hair is just as shiny, maybe more so since it’s not dulled by the hazy fog of the strip club, and it’s tucked behind his ears making him look boyishly handsome. And he’s sporting this perfect amount scruff on that sharp jaw of his. He didn’t have that last time, it’s not quite a beard but more than just five o’clock shadow.

Where at Christmas they were both sporting suits this time they have flannel stretched over their backs and their continued wardrobe coordination makes you question what’s up with these brothers.

Claire’s hand waves in front of your face, “hello, earth to Y/N? Your food’s getting cold and worse, you’re ignoring me.”

You shake away the distraction for a moment and look down at the still very full plate in front of you, “sorry I saw someone I recognized.”

She leans over to your lap to get a better look before her eyes boggle suggestively at the sight. “What handsome and handsomer over there?”

Briefly you wonder which one she thinks is handsomer.

“I wouldn’t call them that but yeah. Don't you remember them? They came to the club?”

She frowns at you, “why would I remember them? I give lap dances to men for a living, I actively try _not_ to remember all their faces.”

“You were sitting on the shorter one’s knee on Christmas Eve. I mean since they were the only normies in that night I thought you might remember.”

She shrugs casually but as she does something changes in her face, like a memory hitting her, “wait, tall guy is the one you ripped off right?”

Of course, that’s the part she remembers.

“Might be,” is all you say with a coy smile but not adding to the story. Especially since Claire has no idea how much you ripped him off by.

The squeal of excitement that comes out of her is unexpected. “Well go and say hello to the guy whose money you stole.”

There’s not a drop of sarcasm hidden in her words. She genuinely thinks this is a good idea. And watching them across the bar, watching the way Sam has this endearing little half smile that he gives his brother when he’s not looking, you’re starting to think it might not be such a bad idea yourself.

Before making any decision, you glance at the empty glasses on the table to check how many drinks you’ve had. Two? Perfect. Not drunk but tipsy enough to think this is not ridiculous.

“I hate you,” are the last words you splutter in Claire’s direction, with love, as she takes the opportunity to have a bite of your burger.

Every step towards the bar is another chance for you to regret this.

He’s going to be pissed right? You stole close to four hundred dollars from him, well technically his brother. Wait. Shit, What’s his brother’s name? You forgot his brother’s name!

You almost turn back when it happens.

Your weak ankle, sensing the cowardice that was about to happen, gives way under you sending you tumbling forward so that you land in between them both. Both your hands gripping the bar to keep you just about upright.

First, you look up at Darren? Or was it Dane? He looks amused and somehow you can tell there’s some cheesy line just waiting to roll off of his lips.

And then you look at Sam.

He looks down at you with these hazel eyes that shine under the warm lights of the bar like, shit, they’re like glass refracting light. Maybe a thousand colors mixing into one that you only call hazel because there’s not another word to describe them. You didn’t remember them being so, so… wow.

The other thing about those eyes? There’s not a hint of recognition in them.

When he says, “are you ok?” you let out a lung full of air you’d been holding in. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or insulted that he doesn’t remember you. It made sense, you’d bumped into far more regular customers than Sam in street clothes and they’d looked right through you. Apparently, it was hard to recognize someone if she didn’t wear her G-string 24/7. But Sam? He hadn’t seemed that interested in you for your scantily clad body so maybe that’s why his indifference stings a little. That even Sam, who you bothered to remember, didn’t recognize you out of your thong.

“Yeah, sorry. I- My ankle likes playing a new game of let’s totally embarrass ourselves.” You bring yourself to height again from leaning on the bar but make no move to leave his personal space quite yet.

He looks down at you, which of itself is so completely different to the last time you’d met. You’d been on your own turf then, in control, you’d sat him in a chair and he’d looked _up_ at you with those big eyes of his. Now you were staring up at him, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and smiling dumbly like you’re a schoolgirl with a crush.

“I’m Sam,” he offers with that half smile again.

“Y/N.” You reply without fear that a realization will hit him now, he’d never heard your real name before.

“Sammy, I’m going to go and…” His brother trails off and you hear him slip down from his bar stool and walk away, taking his burger with him. You slide yourself onto the warm, vacated leather seat without waiting to be asked.

Sam pushes his plate away and spins so he’s almost completely facing you, “can I buy you a drink?”

“You sure you won’t let me buy you one?”

He doesn’t seem confused by this even though he has no idea that it’s stripper guilt making you offer. He just shakes his head, which makes some of his hair fall around his face, and beams, “not a chance Y/N.”

* * *

Sam’s lips are crushed against yours. There’s no soft patience that you’d expect from the man who’d sat talking about nothing of importance for almost an hour before you’d suggested they get out of there.

A man like that you’d expect to be softer than this. The guy who once made you stop your lap dance to ask you about nursing school you’d expect to be slow and steady. A giant teddy bear maybe.

The way he’s held you since the door clicked shut behind you couldn’t be further from that description.

One of his large hands holds your wrists together above your head. Long fingers pinning you against the wall he has you trapped on. His other hand is tight in your hair, keeping your mouth exactly where he wants it. He’s so brutally holding you in place that for a second you think he’s playing you, some con, he knows exactly who you are and what you did.

Except it’s not punishing. It's about control. It’s kissing you until he _decides_ you need air and his teeth sink into the skin of your neck until he _wants_ to run his tongue soothingly over the bites he's making.

At some point, he lets go of your wrists to run his fingers along your jaw, but your hands stay in place when he does. Wordlessly you know that’s where he wants them and though he doesn’t say anything you can feel his mouth stretch into a grin against your neck when he notices your compliance.

His fingers don’t tease. They find the zip of your dress quickly and it’s undone without fanfare. He pushes the material over your shoulders and it pools at your feet. Cool air hitting your warm skin and sending a shudder through you as he steps back. Actually, a full step back to look at you. His eyes tease more than his fingers did. Taking in every curve, every inch of you under his scrutiny.

You really try to stop letting your mind go back to that night all those months ago, but the question was on the tip of your tongue. Why could he look at you now and appreciate your body tonight when he hadn’t before?

And he did appreciate it. This sound emanates from his throat as he looks at you, some mix of a groan and a hum. Just his gaze leaves you flushed despite having worn far less in front of far more people.

“You’re perfect, but you knew that didn’t you?” His words are too playful for the way his still clothed hips grind fiercely against you when he closes in again.

This used to be your job though, so you’re trained for this. You’re an expert at keeping the conversation going instead of losing yourself in the way he touches you. “If I’m perfect then what does that make you?”

You dare to move your hands as you ask it, trailing them over his shoulders, down his hard chest and to the edge of his shirt. Unlike him, your fingers do tease but only while you wait for his permission.

“A lucky, lucky man,” he whispers against the spot where your neck meets your shoulders leaving one last kiss there as he pulls his head back.

His nod is small, but you catch it before you unwrap him like a birthday present. Feeling each button come undone underneath your hands and sliding the material off of him with reverence. What’s underneath the layers of clothing is breathtaking. He’s all tight muscles and defined lines that don’t seem to have an end. You’ve been with guys who look after themselves, but Sam is built like a Greek Adonis and you can’t remember what fable you plucked him from. He lets you trail your hands over his now bare chest, feeling the strength of him under the pads of your fingers, as you whisper mindlessly, “fuck me.”

Sam laughs, chuckles actually. He breaks your moment of awe with what feels like an embrace, pulling you away from the wall and into the center of the room however it’s not loving arms wrapped around you. It’s impatient fingers. It’s him unclasping your bra and throwing the item across the room like it offends him. You find his belt and fumble with it but when it’s undone he’s the one who grabs it and whips it from his jeans with a snap.

He half throws you, half pushes you to the bed. There’s still a bounce under your weight as he covers you with his body, his jeans now gone. His teeth graze over your chest like they’re searching something out. You’d ask him if he needed a map except the joke dies in your throat when he takes your left nipple in his mouth, small scrapes of his teeth and swirling laps of his tongue that make you arch your back off the sheets. Anything to be closer to that mouth as it teases you, his touch already starting the build-up of pressure deep inside. One strong hand pushes you back into the sheets and keeps you there while he continues to torture you, switching to your right nipple at his leisure.

You don’t recognize how much you’re panting, begging for anything, until he lifts his head with a wicked smirk, his free hand toying with the edge of your panties.

“I can’t do anything while these are in my way.”

You should complain that he’s the one that threw you on the bed wearing them. Or point out that the thin, grey material of his briefs are still hiding some of him away. You don’t. You just sigh helplessly, gnawing at your lip and nodding your head. When you try to move your hands to slip them off he bats them away.

“I didn’t tell _you_ to take them off.”

Fucking hell. He’s going to be the death of you with that voice alone. The voice that you didn’t know could be so forceful. A force that you didn’t know you wanted or would make you so very wet so effortlessly. He barely gives you room to raise your hips as he peels your underwear from you. Taking his time with the last piece of clothing on your body. You swear your legs weren’t always that long but he’s taking what feels like minutes, hours, to strip one tiny piece of fabric down them.

There’s a second of nothingness and then you find yourself gasp as if the wind has been stolen from you. From nowhere he's there. He licks a long, languid line through your folds, his tongue moving slowly and somehow still too fast. He barely flicks at your clit but you buzz all the same, trying to buck your hips closer but finding his body pinning you down.

“Delicious. You’re so wet for me already,” one long finger circles your entrance but doesn’t quite slip in yet, his mouth punctuates every word with a kiss to your skin as he travels up over your stomach and returns to your chest. “So desperate for me,” you hiss as he thrusts one long finger in, pumping slowly, figuring out how best to control the fraught moans you’re whispering into the night.

“Please."

His mouth reaches yours again, lips kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s not intending on giving you too much of anything at once. Not even something as simple as his mouth on yours. “Please what?”

Your hands snap to his neck forcing him to look at you as your eyes spring open, “fuck me, Sam. Fuck me now.”

You aren’t really expecting the order to work, not with what you’ve seen of Sam so far but apparently, he can’t resist. Either that or he heard the desperation in your voice rather than the demand. His finger curls inside you making you rise off the bed again but this time he allows it before he slides his finger out, bringing it to his lips.

A blink and you miss it, where the condom comes from you’ll never know. You just see him rolling it over his throbbing erection while you can do nothing but lick your lips and patiently wait. Frozen in place by need. Needing him so badly, needing friction but enjoying the view all the same.

You barely suck in a breath before he thrusts into you, filling you completely. When you raise your eyes he’s staring down at you, watching the changes in your face that you’re not even aware of until you part your lips to ask for more. He moves without you saying the words. Pulling out almost completely and then burying himself back into you, reaching parts of you that you didn’t know existed. Every thrust, every snap of his hips, winds you up a little bit more.

One of your hands is fisted in your hair, desperately clinging on to something, anything, and one hand is wrapped in the sheets trying to ground yourself.

“You feel so fucking good Y/N,” he growls as he somehow picks up his pace further. Your bodies writhe together, one leg wrapped around him giving him better access to fuck you.

Through the panting mess of noises coming out of your mouth you manage, “wanna come with you, Sam.”

And you’re close. You can feel your walls flutter against his cock with each movement of his body against yours. The tension is the only thing holding you together now and you're ready to snap, you’re so nearly there…

“Come for me.” He grind out his order like he's holding on himself. His thumb slides between your bodies, rubbing circles over your bundle of nerves, it's enough to make you scream his name. The pleasure is a wave that peaks with curled toes and tense muscles but as you ride it out your whole body melts into the bed beneath you. If it wasn't so damn good you might call it a test of endurance.

Sam lets out this grunt as your pussy tightens around him and comes undone as well, stilling inside you while you both come down for your highs.

You both stay there for a minute, slick skin and gasping for air. His forehead leaning against yours and a grin on his face that you’d wipe off, if it wasn’t so well fucking deserved.

When he pulls himself out you let out a disappointed huff at his absence that makes him laugh. He doesn’t get a chance to make any promises though because you pat his  chest and grin, “I'm not worried, it’s early.”

* * *

When you’d woken up Sam had been nowhere to be found. It wasn’t surprising, but it was his motel room, so you’d at least been curious as to where he was. Luckily you hadn’t needed to wonder for long. After a few minutes of stretching and rubbing away the sleep from your eyes the bathroom door had opened, and he'd appeared, fresh from the shower with nothing but a towel tied around his waist.

At that moment God had to have been real and he, or she, had truly blessed your existence. Only divine intervention could be responsible for you waking up in time to have seen such a glorious sight. The taught length of his body as water droplets fell from his hair and roll over his torso. All of it lit brilliantly by the fuzzy fluorescent lights, in stark contrast to the darkness that had hidden him the night before. Even in your groggy post-sleep haze, it was a mental picture you’d treasure forever.

Now though he’s dressed, in a suit similar to the one he’d been in at Christmas. He told you he’s going straight to work, not that you know what he does, but he’d still insisted on driving you home. You’d tried to tell him that it was fine, you were trying to improve your uber rating anyway, but there had been no arguing with the man who’d towered over you in the sharp edges of his crisp white shirt. Although when you’d seen the car he was driving you home in you hadn’t regretted giving in, you may not have known a lot about cars, but you could appreciate that this one was beautiful.

Which is how you ended up parked in front of your little townhouse staring at the pale blue front door and reminding yourself that it needs a coat of paint at some point. The thought distracting you from trying to work out how to say goodbye. ‘Thanks’ doesn’t seem like enough, ‘we should do this again sometime’ seems like too much. This dilemma was exactly why you didn’t normally accept a ride home, it was much easier to excuse yourself when you’re running out of the door citing some imaginary thing that you’re late for.

Sam clearing his throat brings your attention back to his chiseled face, “last night was…

“Fun”, you offer where he trails off. He chuckles and nods in agreement and just like that the ice is broken.

“I’m not in town often.” He offers as more of a statement rather than a promise.

You motion to your front door with your hand, “well you know where I am. If you’re ever around again.”

Sam smiles at the steering wheel and just as an awkward silence is about to take over again you remember.

“Sam, can you wait here for like five minutes?”

He looks confused but nods anyway, “sure, why?”

“Just give me five minutes.”

You slide out of the passenger side making fast strides towards your front door.  

It takes a minute to find it since it’s hanging in the back of your closet. Then it takes another minute to fold it up small enough to fit inside of a brown paper bag you’ve grabbed from under the sink. The last three minutes you spend with a pen in your hand, stopping and starting again over the legal pad you've pulled out. Taking a few tries before settling on what to write.

He’s still there when you jog back outside with the ominous brown bag. You knock on his window and roll your arm for him to wind it down, so you can lean in and give him his gift. It might be the first time you’ve seen Sam look nervous, and that includes when you had your barely covered ass in his face while Christmas songs playe in the background.

He’s cautious as he unfolds the brown paper and reaches inside to take out the note. Honestly, you weren’t going to stick around and watch this part, leave a little mystery and all that, but now that you’re here, arms crossed on the car door, you can’t tear yourself away.

**_Thought you might like this back. I never meant to take your jacket in the middle of winter. It looks better on your anyway.  
_ **

The note is still in his left hand as his right reaches into the bag again and pulls out his navy, pinstripe jacket. It takes a second for him to comprehend but when he does? Priceless.

You’re not sure if the look on his face is frustration, amusement or shock. It might be a mix of all three or maybe it's a forth emotion you haven't considered. You don't give him a chance to dwell on it.

“Just call me Angel, like on the top of a Christmas tree.” You put on that sultry stripper voice you haven’t used in months before you lean in and press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

His lips move wordlessly as you walk away, his eyes on you all the way to your door. It’s only when you get there that he finds his voice again, shouting after you.

“Did you go back to nursing school?”

You don’t mean to bark out a laugh like you do, as if he’s ridiculous, but the laugh hits the air anyway.

“No, really did break my leg though. I’m out of the game.”

You motion with your hand for him to turn the note over and from your door you can just about make out his half smile as he does, your number on the back captioned with **_just in case_**.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (belated) birthday gift to the one known as Cas. Happy Birthday my little angel food cake. I swear I tried to get this done yesterday but my muse was not having any of it. Also, I know you didn't ask for bad smut for your birthday but I mean, everyone deserves this gift, yes?


End file.
